


The Only Exception (with the floppy hair)

by Rubick



Series: Soulmates, Bitches! [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Eliot, Oral Sex, POV Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater's Oral Fixation, Rimming, Romantic Soulmates, Season 2 AU, Smut, Soulmates, canon divergent season two shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29464392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/pseuds/Rubick
Summary: Eliot slams the flyer down on the table. “Fillory has an entire festival dedicated tofuckingand I hadno ideait existed? What thefuck, Margo?”“It’s not dedicated tofucking,” Fen breaks in. “And it only happens every few years, because it’s dedicated to finding yoursoulmate.” She smiles brightly, her eyes sparkling as she sighs. “They only put ‘fucking’ in the title to get everyone’s attention. And because of all the brothels that are set up on the festival site.”“Finding your soulmate?” Quentin breaks in. Eliot’s eyes cut over to him, a soft smile automatically forming on his face as he takes in Quentin’s crooked crown, and his soft brown eyes that are focused on Fen. “Like, a real ‘only one in the entire world for me’ soulmate?”“Mmhmm,” Fen says, nodding. “Do they not have soulmates on Earth?”“Only in Disney movies,” Margo says, sitting down in her chair. “And the best fanfiction ever written.”Soulmates: Fillorian Style
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Soulmates, Bitches! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166057
Comments: 53
Kudos: 188
Collections: Parts of One Whole - The Magicians Soulmate Collection





	The Only Exception (with the floppy hair)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/gifts).



> For freneticfloetry, the start of our soulmate takeover.
> 
> This is set after S2, except magic was never turned off. And Margo was democratically elected High King. 
> 
> You’ll notice this belongs to a Magicians Soulmate collection. I did start this collection - it’s open and unmoderated. If you have written/will write any TM fics featuring soulmates for any pairing/grouping, feel free to add your fic to this collection. I know you can just click on the “soulmate” tag and find them, but I decided to make a collection. 
> 
> Many thanks to [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi) and [grimweather](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/dressrosaa) for their beta work!

“You need us to go where, now?” Eliot leans back in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap as he quirks an eyebrow at Margo. She’s been feisty since they started the high council meeting, more so than usual, and he’s not sure why. 

“The Fillorian Fucking Festival.” She tosses down a paper in the middle of the table with a sigh, and Quentin reaches over to slide it his way.

Eliot glances at it before focusing back on Margo. “Why are you so unhappy about this festival?” he asks. Profanity flows out of Margo like breathing on her best day, but the downward tilt to her mouth tells Eliot there’s more going on here than just her colorful vocabulary. “Oh, is it one of those things where they require a representative from the court so we can approve their goat or cow sacrifice? Well, _not it_ ; I did the last one and you know the ruckus it caused when I snuck that goat away to sweet freedom.”

Margo fixes him with a glare, and he shrugs. “What? Fillory is still here, our crops are still growing, there is no ‘wrath of the gods;’ so clearly the sacrifice was only for show or there would have been armageddon by now.”

“El,” Quentin says, holding up the flyer with a smirk. “That’s the actual name of it—the ‘Fillorian Fucking Festival.’” He hands it over to Eliot, who skims the flyer.

“Huh,” he says. “Come ye to the tenth annual Fillorian Fucking Festival. Find your soulmate for all eternity or just the night.” The flyer has an image of what Eliot is sure is a very nice heterosexual couple that appear to be very much in love, their hands clasped while each holds a flame in the palm of their other hands. They’re gazing into each other’s eyes while two moons are vaguely outlined in a starry sky above them.

Eliot slams the flyer down on the table. “Fillory has an entire festival dedicated to _fucking_ and I had _no idea_ it existed? What the _fuck_ , Margo?”

“Oh, I’m just as pissed off as you are,” she says, her arms crossed. “But even more so because _you_ get to go and I’m stuck dealing with the not-so-fucking Lorians.”

“It’s not dedicated to _fucking_ ,” Fen breaks in. “And it only happens every few years, because it’s dedicated to finding your _soulmate_.” She smiles brightly, her eyes sparkling as she sighs. “They only put ‘fucking’ in the title to get everyone’s attention. And because of all the brothels that are set up on the festival site.”

“Finding your soulmate?” Quentin breaks in. Eliot’s eyes cut over to him, a soft smile automatically forming on his face as he takes in Quentin’s crooked crown, and his gentle brown eyes that are focused on Fen. “Like, a real ‘only one in the entire world for me’ soulmate?” 

“Mmhmm,” Fen says, nodding. “Do they not have soulmates on Earth?”

“Only in Disney movies,” Margo says, sitting down in her chair. “And the best fanfiction ever written.”

Fen gasps, a horrified expression on her face. “Oh, that’s so sad! Well, finding your soulmate isn’t exactly _common_ in Fillory, but the hope of it—it’s so romantic. I used to dream of holding the Fucking Flame in my hand, waiting to see if it would pull me towards my destiny.”

“The Fucking Flame?” Eliot says, exchanging a look with Quentin. “Fen—how many fucking things are there in Fillory?” Fen opens her mouth and Eliot cuts her off, “—never mind. Just, give me the rundown on this festival. God, there’s a Fillorian version of Encanto Oculto and I’ve just been sitting here helping run the country like some ignorant first year.”

Fen wiggles in her seat, excited to have something to contribute. All eyes are on her as she starts speaking. “So the Fucking Festival only occurs when there’s a double new moon—doesn’t happen very often—during Blue Giraffe Month. Which is _right now_. This month!” She’s practically vibrating with excitement, and Eliot looks over at Margo, surprised to see she has a small smile on her face as she gazes at Fen. _Hrmm_ , Eliot thinks, making a mental note to ask Margo if she’s going soft in her tenure as High King.

“Legend has it that if you stand on a certain cliffside of the Broken Bay, the one where the old gods ripped the original Fillorians in half, while holding a coal from the Pit of Eternal Desire in your palm, when the moons are directly overhead, if your soulmate is _also_ on the cliffside, the coal will erupt into a golden flame, and a beam of light will form between the two of you. You’ll feel pulled to them, and when you touch them, the flame will burn a brilliant red, showing that you have found your true soulmate.” Fen sighs, her eyes closing as she leans back in her high-backed chair. “It’s just like a fairy tale.”

“A fairy tale where people are ripped in half?” Eliot asks dryly.

“That’s actually pretty common in most Earth fairy tales; the original Danish Little Mermaid ended with the prince marrying someone else and the mermaid killing herself and, like, ascending to a higher plane.” Quentin scratches his head, adjusting his crown as he talks. The table goes silent when he’s done, and he shrugs. “I dunno, the Danish have like, dark souls.”

“Uh huh,” Eliot says. “Okay, let’s just move on before you start talking about the truth behind Cinderella again.” Turning to Fen, he says, “So there’s dismemberment at this festival? Because that is definitely not on the flyer.”

“Oh, no,” she says, laughing. “That’s just the legend. As the story goes, the old gods created every Fillorian with four arms, four legs, and two faces. But the gods thought humans were too powerful, so they split them in two, right down the middle. And now we all spend our lives searching for the other half of our soul.”

“Christ on a cracker,” Margo says, reaching for her wine. 

Eliot does the same, taking a sip. “That sounds appropriately Fillorian. Gruesome, horrific, totally barbaric. For once, makes me glad to be a Child of Earth.”

Quentin clears his throat. “Um. We have something similar on Earth. An old Greek myth. Derived from Plato; it’s not really clear if the story was based in fact, or satire, but it’s… basically the same. Zeus ripping people in two. It’s where the saying ‘my better half’ comes from.”

“Fantastic.” Eliot takes a gulp of wine.

“How often do people find their soulmate?” Quentin asks, shifting in his seat. Eliot turns to look at him, and Quentin meets his gaze and then quickly looks away. Quentin’s always been a dreamer, a romantic—of course the idea of finding his soulmate would be appealing.

The thought of watching as Quentin is pulled towards some beautiful Fillorian woman makes Eliot’s gut twist in a way that is all too familiar. He and Quentin are—have always been—complicated. There was an instant attraction from the moment they met, at least on Eliot’s side, which he promptly set aside when Quentin took up with Alice. Then they crashed and burned, mostly thanks to Quentin sleeping with Eliot and Margo. And after that there were beasts to kill, niffins to resoul, and then an election to win… but their lives have been calm for the past few months. Quentin had decided to remain in Fillory to help Margo, just like Eliot had. She even lets them wear their crowns in their capacity as ‘junior kings,’ as she likes to call them (and which Eliot refuses to answer to). Although she wears the High King crown, and Eliot alternates between her old gold one and the one Alice left behind when she went back to Earth, depending on which one matches his outfit better.

Eliot has been thinking about Quentin, more and more lately. About going beyond their flirting over chess, friendly bickering over how formally they need to dress in the throne room (a hoodie and jeans _should not_ be worn with a king’s crown, no matter how much Quentin insists that black goes with everything) and deep, wine-soaked conversations in front of the fire that always end with Quentin declaring that he’s exhausted and stumbling back to his room. Over the past few months, Eliot’s first-year crush has returned with a vengeance, evolving into something new, something more. Something that he’ll never get to explore if Quentin finds his soulmate. And also if he doesn’t just man the fuck up and make a move.

And yeah, they’ve fucked before. Well, Quentin had fucked Margo while Eliot watched, and then he’d blown Eliot, followed by Eliot burying his fingers inside Quentin until Eliot’s dick was hard again, enough for Margo to climb on and ride him while Quentin jerked himself off, Eliot thrusting his fingers until Quentin came. Most of that night was nothing but a warm, intense blur, but there are sensations that Eliot remembers. Frequently. Quentin’s mouth wrapped around his dick, his eyes rolling back in his head like swallowing Eliot’s come was a biblical experience. How well Quentin had responded to Eliot’s hands, picking them up and putting them where he wanted, like on the back of his neck, and once right on his bare ass cheek, showing Eliot how he liked to be squeezed.

The desire to reclaim Quentin’s lips, for Eliot to shove his hands into Quentin’s hair and tug until he hears Quentin’s sharp intake of breath through his teeth, feel that tight body writhing against his own has been hitting Eliot nearly daily for the past few months. The only thing holding him back from actually doing something about it is the fact that Quentin’s friendship is the healthiest thing he’s had in his life in years. The thought of fucking it up (because he would, eventually, fuck it up; it's kind of Eliot's superpower, screwing himself over) because he can’t stop imagining what Quentin tastes like is terrifying. So he’s done nothing, spending his days talking about Fillorian policy and redecorating the throne room and realizing that he’s been missing out on fucking Fillorian festivals.

“Well, actually finding your soulmate is very rare,” Fen is saying, as Eliot tunes back into the conversation. “There're so many people in Fillory, and most just dismiss the whole thing as legend; only a thousand or so make the trip to actually attend. The odds of you _and_ your soulmate being there are pretty slim.”

“Well the founders have requested a representative from the court to ‘cut the ribbon,’ so to speak, at the festivals’ opening. And I’m sending you two.” Margo points to Quentin and Eliot, and they both look at each other with wide eyes.

“Wh-Why don’t you go?” Eliot stutters. “Q and I can stay here and… guard the castle.” If Quentin doesn’t go to the festival, there’s no way he can meet his soulmate. There. Problem solved.

Unless Margo is involved. She rolls her eyes—“From what, a rogue crew of interior designers that may randomly appear to undo all the changes you’ve made? I literally _just told you_ , Fen and I have to meet with the Lorians. Plus, there’s no way I’m going near some festival that may lock me into one person for the rest of my life. On Earth we call that marriage, and fuck that shit. Free spirit until the day I die, baby.” 

“Can’t we send Tick? Or Rafe and Abigail? _Any_ of the married couples on staff? Fen just said she’s always dreamed of going; you can’t take that away from her.” Eliot knows he’s bordering on desperate, but the longer he thinks on it, the more his heart sinks. Quentin is going to find his soulmate, and he’ll leave. The castle, and Eliot.

“Oh, you don’t want to send anyone married,” Fen says. “The stories I’ve heard about marriages that ended because they weren’t each other’s soulmates—and really, like I said, it’s so rare. I’d love to go, but I have to meet with the Lorian knifemaker; it’s the whole point of their visit.”

Eliot shoots another look at Quentin, and sees him staring down at the table, his face downcast. A stab of guilt hits Eliot. He knows Quentin regrets that night in the Cottage; it cost him Alice. And he hasn’t dated anyone since then, and now Eliot is trying to take that chance away from him. _You’re so fucking selfish._

Beside him, Margo turns to him, frowning. “Eliot, you just had your balls in a twist because you’d never gone to this festival, and now you’re trying to hoist it off on anyone else?”

“Yeah, that was before I found out it was less about sex and more about… lifetime commitments to total strangers.” His eyes dart over to Fen as he says it, since they've both already been down that road. She's not even looking at him, smiling over at Margo.

“Fen said it’s rare,” Quentin pipes up. “That people find their soulmate. And we’re Children of Earth, so we don’t know if the magic would even work on us.” Quentin still isn’t looking at Eliot, talking to the table. _Oh, Quentin_ , Eliot thinks. _You always seem to be the exception to every rule._

Margo sighs. “Look, cut the goddamn ribbon and set up camp in whatever fucking tent you like the best. Skip the soulmate bullshit and make your own Encanto out of it; just keep the locals happy so next election, we win the humans _and_ the talking animals.”

The thought of Eliot finding a soulmate is laughable, at best. He’s not destined for ‘true love’ or any of that bullshit—he’s the loyal best friend that watches all his friends pair off or get married while he pines after the man that will never love him back the way he wants. Finding a soulmate is a fun concept to think about, but if Eliot attends the ceremony, he’ll just be left standing with a lump of coal while everyone else celebrates.

Eliot is still looking at Quentin, who finally glances up and meets Eliot’s eyes. Eliot gives him a small smile, which Quentin returns. Eliot puts on his best ‘Yes, Bambi’ smile, turning back to Margo. “Of course, my dear. Anything you require, we are at your service.” 

“Good,” Margo says, all smiles in an instant. “The carriage leaves tomorrow morning. It’s a day’s ride to the Broken Bay. Now, last thing on the agenda—the land sharks are petitioning for access to the Swept Coast. Why the fuck do they want access to the water; aren’t they called land sharks for a _reason_?”

Eliot tunes out the rest of the meeting, nodding politely where appropriate, but really just watching Quentin, who’s passionately advocating for the opportunity for land sharks and sea sharks to like, cohabitate or some shit. He’s all sparkling eyes and talking with his hands, like he always is when he’s really _into_ whatever nerd shit he’s going on about. At one point he reaches up to push back a few tendrils of hair and adjust his crown on his head again, which only makes it more crooked. Eliot smiles to himself. _There really is no one else like him in the world._

Then he thinks of a tiny flame flaring up in Quentin’s palm, and his delighted expression as it lights up his entire face. And Eliot’s smile falls into a frown.

~~~

“Are you going to do it?”

“Hmm?” Eliot turns to Quentin, one hand clasped loosely around his mug of wine. Thank god he’d gone with his instincts and brought his own stash; the alcohol offerings here were abysmal.

“The ceremony. Tonight. You know, find your soulmate?”

“Oh,” Eliot says flatly. “That.”

He hasn’t decided. On one hand, if the soulmate ceremony was anything like the majority of the Fillorian Fucking Festival, it was going to be one guy with a flashlight tossing burning matches into random people’s hands and lassoing them together, proclaiming them kindred spirits while he tossed goat semen all over them. On the other, there _were_ a decent number of dignitaries and wealthy philanthropists from all over Fillory and neighboring provinces, so maybe the soulmate ceremony was the one part of the entire event that would actually perform as advertised.

Eliot had told himself not to expect anything actually similar to Encanto Oculto, but he hadn’t lowered his expectations nearly enough. After spending a day bouncing around the inside of the carriage (no number of stabilization spells seemed to cushion the bumps, and their driver was apparently determined to hit every damn one), he and Quentin had stepped out to a site very similar to the traveling carnivals Eliot had visited back in Indiana.

Hastily set up tents and wooden stalls were erected in a muddy field; rains from earlier in the week hadn’t fully dried yet. It looked like only a few of the buildings were meant to be permanent fixtures, which made sense, if this event only happened every few years. The main pub and first aid center claimed those spaces, along with a small inn.

The nicest area of the festival is where he and Quentin are right now; a cordoned off section set up in the very back near the entrance to the cliffside where the ceremony will take place. They’ll stand next to the Fucking Festival ‘King’ and ‘Queen,’ and light the ceremonial flame that officially starts the festival. The king and queen were actual soulmates, or so they said; Eliot thinks they’re full of it but Quentin believes them. Because of course he does.

“I don’t know,” Eliot says, sighing. “I guess I should. Since we’re here. And it’ll probably be noticed if I flee the scene as soon as we finish the opening ceremony.”

They’re sitting at a private bar gated off by soft ribbons (Eliot assumes it’s the closest thing Fillory has to velvet ropes), reserved for ‘VIP’ guests. Which Eliot and Quentin very much are. Royalty and all that. Quentin smiles, his knee bumping Eliot’s as he turns towards him in his chair. 

“I’m sure people would understand,” Quentin says, looking at the mug Eliot’s hand is wrapped around. “Not everyone wants a soulmate.”

“You do,” Eliot says softly. Quentin meets his eyes in surprise, and then he looks away.

“I—” Quentin clears his throat, taking a long gulp of his own wine. “I used to wish for a soulmate. When I was younger.” He chuckles, leaning back against his chair, his knee pressing harder into Eliot’s. That touch, even through their clothes, sends heat shooting up Eliot’s thigh, an electric buzz charging through his limbs. “That one magical person that completes you, feels like home.” He licks his lips lightly and swallows, his eyes darting between Eliot and anywhere else. “I know you probably think that’s stupid, but—”

“No,” Eliot says quickly. “It’s not stupid, Q. Just—unlikely.” Quentin nods in agreement, the corners of his mouth pulling down, and Eliot keeps talking, babbling because no matter how small the chance is that Quentin’s soulmate is here tonight, Eliot’s going to plant that seed of doubt, and water that bitch for all it’s worth. “It just seems very limiting. _One_ person? In all of Earth and Fillory? It seems impossible.”

Quentin laughs then, smiling, his eyes crinkling as he looks at Eliot. “The fact that Fillory was real seemed impossible to me. For a long time. The idea that I would be doing actual magic and going on incredible adventures and talking to Gods and, fuck, becoming a king. Even if I did get demoted to a ‘junior king.’ And end up sitting here right now, with you. It all seems impossible. Until it isn’t.” Quentin’s face is open as he speaks, one hand reaching out to squeeze Eliot’s knee, the same one pressed into Quentin’s knee. He smiles fondly as he pulls his hand back; Eliot represses the urge to reach for it and slot their fingers together.

“It would be nice,” Quentin says. “To know, I guess. Who the universe thinks would work best for me. But. Life’s never that easy. And it’s rare it gives you what you want.” He looks back to Eliot, and Eliot’s heart stutters in his chest at the longing he sees looking back at him. Almost like looking in a mirror. Then Quentin turns away, and the moment is gone.

“Anyway,” Quentin says, fiddling with his mug, swinging in his seat so they’re no longer touching at all. “I hope we get to see someone find their soulmate. It would make me feel good. To know that kind of magic, or hope, I guess. Exists in this world.”

Eliot nods, staring into his wine. _I wish I would find my soulmate. But only if it was you._ He swallows the thought as soon as it enters his head. The idea that he and Quentin could be that to each other is so large and terrifying and so _not possible_ that he hasn’t allowed himself to think about it, consider it. Quentin deserves someone that breathes light into his life, not someone that fucks up everything they touch.“I hope you get to see it.”

A few hours later, the sun has set, and the twin Fillorian moons are rising in the sky. It should be roughly midnight when they are directly overhead, which is when the magic is supposed to happen.

There are hundreds of people spread out in front of them; the festival has come alive in the past few hours, making it look more hippie rave and less redneck red light district. The grounds are lit up; flaming lanterns dot the sky and colorful fireworks are blasting off at random intervals. Stalls and tents are rocking and writhing; Eliot has no doubt if he wandered the area he’d get more than one eyeful of naked bodies and lewd acts that would scandalize even him.

Margo really should come, though. She’d love it, even if it is just the really gross version of Encanto.

Quentin, Eliot, and the king and queen of the festival are standing on a raised platform several hundred feet before the cliffside. Hundreds of feet below is the Broken Bay, and Eliot can hear the gentle rush of waves beating against the rocks. He’d asked Chad (the Fucking King, which Eliot refused to call him) if anyone ever fell off the edge. 

“Oh yes, many times,” he’d replied, with a hearty laugh. “Part of the excitement of attending the festival!”

Eliot had made a mental note to keep Quentin close and far away from the edge; he doesn’t know if there’s gonna be a stampede or what, but he’s ready for anything. Just beyond the platform is a huge pit full of coal, the Pit of Eternal Desire Fen had mentioned. According to Chad, every participant at the festival would calmly walk through the gates to the cliffside, obtaining one piece of coal. Eliot has his doubts, but whatever. Push comes to shove, he can grab Quentin and fly them the fuck out of there. He hasn’t pushed his telekinesis in a while; it can use the workout.

The king welcomes everyone to the festival and then gestures to Quentin. He’ll be reading from the Soulmate Scripture, and Eliot will light the ceremonial flame. And then Quentin can go find his soulmate and Eliot can cry into the Pit of Desire before he throws himself into the Broken Bay. Eliot congratulates himself on not even being a little bit dramatic before turning his attention back to the festivities.

Quentin clears his throat, speaking loudly as he reads from the scroll. They put an amplification charm on the platform, so everyone should be able to hear what is said, no matter how far away they are.

“They were the stranger I recognized. They immediately felt like home to me.” Quentin falters, glancing up at Eliot, and then back to the scroll. His voice is softer as he continues, his tone more reverent. “It was as if we knew each other for years. It felt like we belonged to each other.”

Eliot had been looking out into the crowd, but now he finds himself focusing on Quentin, watching as his eyes trace over the parchment, listening for every inhalation as he speaks. His voice is lilting, beautiful, wrapping around Eliot like a soft blanket.

“May we all tread fearlessly on the brave path of finding the one for us, the one that is us. May we never yield in our Quest for True Love. In a daunting world full of noise and misguidance, may our hearts be strong and our will adamant. For if not, it is us that will ultimately pay the price, a life not accomplished, a happiness not found, a home never felt.” Quentin hesitates, swallowing. Then he looks up from the scroll, directly into Eliot’s eyes. “For home is not a place. It is a feeling.”

Silence hangs in the air, and then the crowd bursts into applause. Eliot hears none of it, seeing only Quentin’s dark brown eyes shining back at his under the night sky. He’s not sure how long they stare at each other when Chad thunks Eliot in the thigh, starling him into movement.

“Oh! Uh, with this flame, may the Soulmate Ceremony of the Fillorian Fucking Festival commence! Uh, happy soulmating. And. May your fucking be—most glorious.” Eliot grabs the ceremonial torch (which doesn’t look all that ceremonial; it could have come off one of the walls back at Whitespire) and lights the brazier. It flares up immediately, and the crowd roars its approval.

Eliot dispels the amplification charm as the crowd does, indeed, start to slowly and orderly move to the cliffside. He and Quentin stand for a few minutes, watching, until Eliot breaks the silence.

“That was beautiful,” Eliot says, trying not to focus too much on how their arms brush as Quentin sways next to him.

“Yeah, well they totally ripped off Plato. You think maybe he was Fillorian?” Quentin angles his head up to look at Eliot, who smiles down at Quentin.

“I have no fucking idea.”

A half-hour later, the majority of the crowd has moved onto the cliffside. Several people are not participating in the soulmate ceremony, and are exploring the festival, meandering among the brightly lit tents and booths. Eliot looks over at the group on the cliffside, and then down at Quentin, who’s watching him.

“You coming?” Quentin asks.

Eliot looks back up to the crowds, and thinks about Quentin embracing his soulmate while Eliot stands alone. He shakes his head—“No. I—I don’t think so.”

Quentin looks up at him for a moment, and then looks down to his feet. “I’ll miss you.” Then he steps away, stepping down to the grass and making his way to the pit of coal. Eliot watches as he grabs one and disappears into the crowd of people.

Eliot sits down on the edge of the platform; the last of the stragglers make their way onto the cliffside. There’s still plenty of coal left in the pit, and one of the workers looks over to Eliot.

“Would you like to go in, my lord? There’s only a few minutes until the moons are in position.” He holds out a piece of coal towards Eliot.

Eliot stares at it, and then over at the crowd, starting to hoot and holler as the stars shine down brightly. “Fuck it,” he says, grabbing the coal and striding towards the cliffside.

He doesn’t look for Quentin, just walks until he’s a few feet away from the edge. He’s never been to this part of Fillory before and it’s beautiful—the Broken Bay is spread out beneath him, silver waves cresting in the starlight. There are braziers set up around the perimeter of the area, and shadows are dancing merrily across the grass. Eliot tilts his head back and looks up at the twin moons of Fillory, black circles covering the stars. He can feel the magic in the air, dancing across his skin and down his spine, as solid and real as the hard coal clutched in his fingers.

“You came.”

He turns, a smile automatically forming on his face as he sees Quentin staring at him, relief and happiness all over his face. “Yeah,” he says. “Just, uh. You never know, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Quentin replies, pushing his hair behind his ear. He’d put it up in a little bun, and had removed his crown; it’s probably stuffed in his jacket.

Eliot takes a step back and looks at Quentin, wanting to memorize him. If this is it, the last time he gets to look at a Quentin that has the possibility of becoming his one day, he wants to savor it. He’s dressed in a simple black wrap tunic with gold trim; the angle of the shirt gives a tantalizing glimpse of tanned chest and sharp collarbones. He has a dark green jacket over it, and underneath are simple black linen pants. High leather boots complete the outfit. Quentin is staring up at him, his eyes thoughtful, curious. One of his hands is clutched tightly around a lump of coal just like the one in Eliot’s hand.

“You ready?” Quentin asks, as the crowd around them starts to rumble, hooping and hollering, their eyes craned to the sky. Quentin joins them, looking up, but Eliot can only stare at him.

“No,” Eliot whispers, giving in to his urge to touch. One hand reaches up to splay on Quentin’s neck, thumb swiping over his collarbone. Quentin’s gaze snaps over to Eliot’s, and he steps closer.

“El?” he asks. Eliot can only look down at him, thinking how any minute now he could be taken away, destined to be with some—stranger.

“Here it comes!” Voices cry out behind them, and, despite the fact that every fiber of his being is screaming at him not to, Eliot takes his hand away, stepping back. The air is electric, magic infusing every atom, and Eliot knows something is happening. For Quentin. He doesn’t want to watch.

“Eliot—” Quentin takes a step forward, and then stops in his tracks, his eyes widening as his face bright as a new light flickers all over his face. “Holy shit, Eliot,” he breathes.

Eliot’s not looking at Quentin’s face, but at his hand clutching the coal—where flames are shooting out between his fingers. Eliot’s heart sinks to his feet, into the ground, all the way to the fucking core of the Earth, buried and black and never to be used again.

He _knew it_. He fucking knew it. Any second now Quentin will feel the pull, and he’ll go—

“Oh my god, over here! The kings!”

“ _Eliot_ ,” Quentin says. “Your fucking coal—do you not _feel_ that? It’s on _fire_.”

Eliot looks down at his hand, and sure enough—the same golden flames flickering out of Quentin’s are sparking from Eliot’s. He pulls his hand up, unwraps his fingers—and blossoming there in the center of his hand is a perfect, brilliant flame. It has no heat, he doesn’t feel it at all, but it’s there, blazing, growing higher by the second.

 _Holy fucking shit._ Eliot looks at Quentin, who’s by now noticed the same fire in his own hand—and as he, and the crowd gathered around them watch, the flames grow toward each other, until they are connected in a brilliant burning string between the two of them.

All Eliot can do is stare dumbly at the flames, his mouth hanging open. _What the fuck is happening?_ All around him people are clapping, cheering, but he hears none of it. He only sees Quentin’s face, smiling at him, tears tracking down his face in the firelight.

“Q—” he says, “I—”

He’s cut off by Quentin covering the few feet between them, the flames popping, sparking, effervescent in the darkness. Quentin’s fingers encircle the wrist of his free hand, and as their fingers slot together, the flames shoot higher than ever, their color changing to a brilliant red. They spark and sputter for another moment, and then vanish in a burst of energy, leaving Eliot and Quentin staring at each other on the grassy cliffside under the dark moons.

“Eliot,” Quentin says, grasping both of Eliot’s hands in his own. “I—”

“Well would you look at that? Our own kings of Fillory are soulmates! Like what the fuck, man!” Chad came up to them, thumping Eliot on the back, all smiles. “This is gonna be great for business—y’all are the only ones this year, but holy shit, I’ll forgive the gods for giving me quality over quantity. Congratu-fucking-lations!”

“There’s a mistake,” Eliot says, not believing. He’s not meant to have a soulmate, and not Quentin—he deserves so much more. Than Eliot can give. “There’s no way. We’re not—”

“What?” Quentin says, his eyebrows knitting together. “You think this is a mistake?”

“I mean, Q. You’re not—” He cuts himself off as Quentin’s gaze turns angry, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m not what?” he asks, his voice low.

Eliot swallows, his face is hot, his entire body is so warm. He looks down to the ground. “You—you don’t want this. The magic—I don’t know, but it’s—it’s not right.” _It can’t be right. There’s no way. People like you don't happen to people like me._ Eliot's lovers leave or die—he doesn't have a soulmate. He wasn't made for one.

Quentin drops Eliot’s hands, and Eliot can hear the crowd around them grow quiet. Quentin steps closer, taking Eliot’s chin in his hand and forcing him to look at Quentin. Eliot's stomach turns to ice at the pain and anger he sees there.

“I know _exactly_ who I am and _exactly_ what I want. I’m the same person that stumbled into Brakebills and suddenly believed in love at first sight. The same person that has been telling myself for _years_ that I’m crazy to ever think for a _second_ you’d ever want me the way I want you. The same person that fucking _followed you_ to Fillory, because the only place that’s ever truly felt like home to me is wherever _you_ are. The person that’s spent _months_ trying to work up the courage to tell you I’m _in love with you_.” Quentin’s hand moves from Eliot’s chin to splay across his jaw, his thumb swiping over Eliot’s cheekbone. It sends a shock through Eliot’s body, tears springing to his eyes as he stares down at Quentin.

“I didn’t need this goddamn soulmate magic to prove it, but I thought that maybe, just fucking _maybe_ we could be one in a million. Do the impossible.” Quentin drops his hand from Eliot’s face, shaking his head and looking to the sky. “And we are. We can. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters if you don’t want it too.”

With one final look at Eliot, he turns and strides away through the murmuring crowd.

Eliot stands stock-still, staring at Quentin’s retreating back. The eyes of dozens of stunned Fillorians are upon him, and he ignores all of them. Chad is next to him, saying something, the crowd is getting louder but Eliot can only hear _I’m in love with you_ in his head, over and over. He can still feel Quentin’s palm warm against his cheek, see his tear-stained face in front of him.

_I’m a complete fucking idiot._

“Quentin!” Eliot’s moving, stumbling, running through the crowd that is now turning restless, throwing glares Eliot’s way. He ignores them, focused only on getting to Quentin. And hoping he hasn’t completely fucked everything up.

He catches up to him in the bar they were sitting at earlier, on his heels as Quentin strides up the stairs to the upper level, where their bedrooms are. “Q, wait,” he pants, leaning against the bannister.

“For what?” Quentin asks over his shoulder, still climbing. “You to explain how you don’t ‘do’ soulmates? Don’t worry, Eliot, I get it. You made it very clear. Go enjoy the festival. I’ll be gone by the time you get back.”

“Like hell you will be,” Eliot says, taking the stairs two at a time, grabbing Quentin’s shoulder at the top of the landing. Quentin yanks out of his grasp, slipping into his bedroom and slamming the door. Eliot hears the lock turn as he catches up.

“Q, come on,” Eliot says, resting his head against the door. “Open the door.” Quentin knows a lock won’t stop him; he can have the door open with a flick of his fingers, but he doesn’t want to force his way in. He wants Quentin to let him in.

“No,” Quentin says. “Leave me alone.”

Eliot laughs, turning around his back is to the door. “But that’s the problem, Q. I’ve left you alone for too long. Because I didn’t—I never—I—” He falters, losing steam. God, talking is hard. But he owes this to Quentin. To himself.

“When we came here, I knew you were going to find your soulmate. I _knew_ it. And you deserve it, Q, to have a lifetime with someone that can love you the way you deserve to be loved. Entirely, all-encompassing, fucking burning hot. And I—I wanted it to be me, Q. I didn’t let myself think about it or—because that shit, it doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get happily ever afters, and when it _happened_ , when that fucking flame pulled us together—it—I didn’t believe that it could be real.” He exhales heavily, leaning his head back against the door. No sound comes inside the room, and Eliot wonders if Quentin put up a sound ward so he can’t actually hear Eliot blather on. Eliot wouldn’t blame him. But now that he’s started, he can’t shut the fuck up.

“But it is real,” Eliot says, turning so his side is leaning on the door, looking down at his hand still on the doorknob. “It _has been_ real. For… I don’t even fucking know how long.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you, Q. And these past few months, I kept coming up with reasons not to—be with you. But I feel the same way you do. And I’m sorry it took a fucking festival for me to tell you I’m in love with you. That the only place I’ve ever felt like I belonged was next to you.”

There’s silence for a moment, two, and then the click of the lock sliding back. Eliot barely has time to step back from the door when it’s being yanked open, and he’s staring into Quentin’s wide eyes.

“Q, I—”

He’s cut off by Quentin stepping into his space, pushing up on his toes to press his lips against Eliot’s. Quentin’s hands wrap around Eliot’s neck, and Eliot lets out a small noise of pleased surprise as he leans into the kiss, his fingers coming up to circle around Quentin’s wrists. Eliot isn’t sure if it’s the magic from the soulmate ceremony, but he can feel Quentin’s kiss throughout his entire body—from his scalp down to his toes, like his blood is singing out its delight at finally being connected to Quentin. All too soon, Quentin pulls away, his hands sliding down slightly to rest on Eliot’s shoulders.

Quentin opens his mouth, but Eliot has to say, to his face—“I love you. I’m so sorry about what I said on the cliff—You’re not a mistake. If anyone’s the mistake, it’s me. Granted, I’m the best mistake you’ll ever make, but—”

“Oh my god,” Quentin says, smiling. “I’m supposed to be the one that can’t shut up.” He pulls Eliot inside, shutting the door behind them, turning to face him. “I love you. I’ve wanted to tell you for—fucking, months now. You’re all I think about. When we came here, I hoped—so much, Eliot, that it would be you.” Quentin reaches up to press his palm against Eliot’s face, just like he had on the cliffside. This time, Eliot lets himself lean into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “You deserve love as much as anyone, Eliot. I want to give it to you. If you’ll let me.”

Eliot’s eyes open, and he nearly stumbles from the love he sees reflected in Quentin’s intense gaze. He reaches for Quentin, sliding one hand into his jacket to rest on his waist, the other coming up to rest on the side of his neck, his thumb just sweeping over Quentin’s ear. He leans down, nodding into the kiss.

“Okay,” he whispers, and Quentin pulls Eliot’s body flush against his own, his hands wrapping around Eliot’s back. Quentin’s tongue flickers out to brush against Eliot’s lips, and Eliot opens to him, deepening the kiss. It’s languid and intense, and Eliot doesn’t know how he went so long without the taste of Quentin on his tongue, the smell of him invading his senses. Eliot feels a little drunk by the time the need to breathe separates them. “Can you give it to me now?” Eliot asks, his hand sliding under Quentin’s shirt to rest on the warm skin of his back.

Quentin chuckles, kissing his way down Eliot’s jaw. “Yeah,” he says, his hands moving to the buttons on Eliot’s shirt. “I think I can manage that.”

They stumble over to Quentin’s bed, still untouched since their arrival earlier that day, and Eliot sits down heavily as Quentin tries to crawl in his lap, unwilling to separate for an instant.

“Let me—god—get our boots off,” Eliot says, his eyes fluttering shut as Quentin nibbles at Eliot’s neck, dragging his teeth down Eliot’s throat as he pushes Eliot’s shirt down his shoulders. Eliot gasps as Quentin sucks hard, his hands caressing over the newly exposed skin—down Eliot’s back, over his stomach, carding through his chest hair. “Fuck, baby, that feels good.”

“I’ve thought about this,” Quentin says, pushing Eliot down until he’s laying on his back, his legs hanging off the bed, feet still on the floor, “so much.” He steps back so he’s standing on the side of the bed, leaning over Eliot, his hair falling out of his bun. Eliot reaches up and gently pulls at his hair tie until Quentin’s hair falls loose around his shoulders. Eliot tosses the hair tie onto the bed and then pushes Quentin’s hair behind his ear, his hand sliding back to cup Quentin’s cheek, pressing his thumb against Quentin’s lips. Quentin gently kisses it, his tongue flickering out to lick at the pad of Eliot’s thumb.

Eliot’s dick was already hard, but it thickens further at the wet slide of Quentin’s pink tongue against his finger. “You’re beautiful,” Eliot whispers, his hand sliding around to the back of Quentin’s neck, pulling down as he pushes up into another kiss. It’s instantly wet and filthy, tongues lapping against each other as Eliot tries to pull Quentin down to the bed with him. After months of lusting, fantasizing about Quentin coming apart around Eliot’s fingers, imagining the taste of him on Eliot’s tongue, Eliot wants it all, _now_.

He’s surprised to feel Quentin’s palm flat against his chest, pressing him back into the bed. He opens his eyes, smiling at how wrecked Quentin looks, his hair tousled, lips swollen and pink. “Let’s get our clothes off before you make me come in my pants,” Quentin says, his breaths coming fast.

He drags his hand down Eliot’s chest, thumbing over one nipple and then the other, slowly dragging his nails against Eliot’s belly. Eliot presses his head back against the mattress—every touch is electric, sending sparks of pleasure down his torso, straight to his dick. By the time Quentin’s hand stops at Eliot’s belt buckle, Eliot’s cock is straining against the seam of his pants.

“Do you ever think about—” Eliot gasps as Quentin palms his hard dick through his trousers, and then slides away as Quentin kneels down, working at the catches on Eliot’s boots. “—that night?”

“What night?” Quentin asks absently, as he pulls one boot off, setting it aside and sliding his hands up Eliot’s calves to pull at his sock. Even that touch is fevered; fuck, how far gone is he that Quentin’s fingers sliding down his shin, one of the unsexiest limbs ever, has Eliot grasping at the coverlet, unable to control his small gasps and moans.

“In the cottage,” Eliot says, swallowing as Quentin moves to his other boot. “With Margo.” Quentin’s hands still at his words, and then move faster, undoing the catches and yanking the boot off.

“Yeah,” Quentin says gruffly, pulling off Eliot’s other sock. “I think about it.” Eliot hears a thump and shuffling, probably of Quentin pulling his own boots off.

“Me too,” Eliot says as Quentin reappears, hovering above him. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black, and his tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he stares down at Eliot. “All the time.” Eliot pushes up on his elbows, crawling back up the mattress, Quentin following. “I wish—” He breaks off, distracted by Quentin straddling him, his strong thighs bracketing Eliot in as he settles right over Eliot’s hard cock.

“Tell me,” Quentin says, leaning over Eliot, his hair falling over them as he trails his lips down Eliot’s forehead, his nose, his lips, “what you wish.” He trails his mouth over to Eliot’s ear as he grinds down slowly with his hips, delicious pressure right where Eliot wants it.

“I wish I’d gotten my mouth on you. Inside you,” Eliot gasps, his hands slipping inside the waistband of Quentin’s pants so he’s palming his bare ass. Quentin’s eyes fall shut and a guttural sound escapes his lips as Eliot squeezes, his pinkie sliding over the cleft in his ass. He pulls Quentin down, right where he wants him, moving his body up and over his cock, moaning as pleasure unspools inside him, radiating throughout his body. “You were so hot, making Margo come on your dick. Riding my fingers. But it wasn’t enough.” 

Quentin whimpers into Eliot’s ear, and thrusts down harder, his breathing growing more ragged in Eliot’s ear. “I was jealous of her,” Quentin says, one hand splayed over Eliot’s chest, pinching his nipple. “She got to have you inside her.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eliot says, pulling his hands up and out of Quentin’s pants, sliding up his back, pushing his shirt up. Quentin pushes up and pulls it the rest of the way off, and then he yelps in surprise as Eliot wraps an arm around him, pushing up with his other hand to flip them on the bed so he’s on top. “You want that?” Eliot asks, adjusting so he’s straddling Quentin. “Want me to fuck you?”

Quentin stares up at Eliot, his eyes wide, unfocused, like he’s in a daze. Eliot’s heart clenches in his chest; it’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at him that way. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I want everything with you.”

Eliot leans down, grasping Quentin’s chin and holding him in place as he kisses him, thrusting his tongue in his mouth. Quentin slides his hands into Eliot’s hair, tugging at his curls until Eliot pulls away, panting, light-headed with desire. “Fuck, Eliot,” Quentin says as Eliot’s hands move to Quentin’s pants, pushing them down his thighs. “I want you so much.”

“You have me,” Eliot whispers. His mouth follows the path his hands just took, one he’s traveled so many times in his mind—licking and nibbling down Quentin’s neck and chest, down his belly, swirling his tongue over the divots in Quentin’s hips.

He mouths at Quentin’s dick through his boxers, pressing his tongue against the wet spot, groaning at the taste of Quentin’s come. “Soulmates, remember?”

“God,” Quentin says as Eliot slowly pulls down the waistband of Quentin’s boxers, revealing the pink tip of his cock. “It doesn’t seem real,” Quentin says, and then he moans as Eliot lets the elastic trap his dick against his hips, laving his tongue at the tip, dipping into the slit and lapping up any drops of moisture clinging on.

“It’s real, baby,” Eliot says, slowly pulling Quentin’s boxers down and off, stepping away to toss them off to the side. He looks at Quentin as he undoes his belt. He’s gorgeous—his hair messy and tousled, dark eyes wide as he watches Eliot toss his belt to the floor. His lips are swollen, red around his mouth, marks already forming on his neck and upper chest. His belly is flat, a dark trail of hair leading down to his cock, hard against his stomach. His strong, furry thighs are trembling slightly as he pushes himself up on his elbows, watching hungrily as Eliot shoves his pants down and steps out of them.

Eliot resists the temptation to say, _As real as this dick_ , but he doesn’t, because this is supposed to be the romantic seduction part of the evening, and instead he reaches down and strokes himself, his eyes briefly closing at the electricity that surges through him as he touches himself while Quentin watches.

“So I’ve never—” Quentin starts, and Eliot’s eyes open, watching as Quentin stares at his dick. “I’ve never done that before,” he finishes, his eyes flickering shyly up to Eliot’s face. “I’ve done everything else, and I’ve used toys, but never—anything—your—size.” He stops, his face getting redder as Eliot watches.

“S’okay,” Eliot says, pushing Quentin back gently on the bed, climbing over him, bracing himself on one hand while he continues lazily stroking his cock with his other. “It’s a lot to take. Are you sure you want to? I’m happy with other things if we want to work up to that.”

“I’m sure,” Quentin says immediately, his eyes glued to Eliot’s dick as he moves up the bed, settling back on a pillow. He reaches down, covering Eliot’s hand with his own, both their palms sliding together as Eliot shows him how he likes it. Eliot can’t stop the low moan that falls from his lips as he takes his hand away, letting Quentin stroke him on his own.

“I remember how big you were… I thought my memories made you bigger than you really were. But you’re so fucking big, like, _here_ , in real life,” Quentin says, grinning as he moves his hand faster. Eliot bites at his lower lip as he presses his head to Quentin’s shoulder; his voice is so awed and fucking happy about Eliot’s fat cock and the whole thing is really _doing it_ for Eliot. “I want it in my mouth again,” Quentin confesses. "I want to choke on it.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Eliot says, batting Quentin’s hand away, slotting their fingers together and pressing his hand into the coverlet. “This night will be over way too fast if you keep that up. And talking. Like that. _Fuck_ , Quentin.” 

“Sorry,” Quentin says, though his grin says he’s not sorry at all. He squeezes Eliot’s hand, and his expression turns serious. “Sometimes I think I dreamed it,” he says as Eliot settles between his thighs. “That night. That you wanted me. That someone like you wants to be near me at all. Even as a friend.”

“Not a dream,” Eliot says, sliding their cocks together, hissing at the heat pressing between them, the delicious slide of skin on skin. He looks down at Quentin, at his hair splayed out against the pillow. “I meant it. When I said I wanted you since the first time I saw you. But we both met other people, and I thought friends was all we’d ever be. Then we killed the beast, got Alice back, and you decided to live at Whitespire, I—” He breaks off, looking away as emotion swells inside him. Fucking soulmate magic; it must be making him really _feel_ his fucking feelings more than usual.

Quentin reaches up and cradles Eliot’s face, turning him so their eyes meet. His face is so full of adoration and tenderness it takes Eliot’s breath away. “I came here for you,” Quentin says. “Eliot, I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says, his voice cracking. “I never thought you’d—”

“I do,” Eliot breaks in, remembering that they’re naked and hard and pressed against each other and they _already did_ the big confession of love, why _the fuck_ are they still _talking_. “I always have and I always will. You’re stuck with me forever, Coldwater. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to suck your dick for a bit. Eat you out. Then maybe fuck you, if you’re up for it?”

Quentin’s mouth falls open slightly at his words, and then pulls up into a grin. “I think I can get on board with that.”

“Good,” Eliot says, laying a kiss on Quentin’s nose. Then he moves down Quentin’s body, laving over his chest and stomach as he goes.

He pulls Quentin apart with his mouth, finding out exactly what his come tastes like, how he likes it when Eliot takes him in deep and then pulls out to suck at the head of his cock, working his tongue against the underside until Quentin is writhing against him. Quentin scratches down Eliot’s shoulders and back when he comes, gasping and moaning Eliot’s name. It’s exactly and nothing like Eliot’s fantasies, because no fantasy can capture the love and contentment resonating through Eliot’s body with every kiss and caress.

Quentin insists on getting his mouth on Eliot after, and the memory of Quentin’s lips wrapping around his cock is nothing compared to the reality of it. He’s all wet heat and enthusiasm, his hands moving all over Eliot’s thighs and stomach, humming around him like Eliot’s dick is the best thing he’s had in his mouth in years. Quentin likes to be grabbed and moved around, and Eliot is happy to oblige, gripping the back of Quentin’s neck as he moans around Eliot’s cock, sucking it down until it hits the back of his throat. He protests when Eliot pulls him off before comes, but he’s amicable enough when Eliot shoves him back down on the bed.

“I wanna come inside here,” Eliot says, pressing his fingers down under Quentin’s balls, circling his entrance. Quentin’s cock is starting to firm up again, and it twitches as Eliot presses the tip of one finger just inside. He can’t wait to fuck him, Eliot’s already sinking into the tight heat of him with just one finger, pressing in a little farther, enjoying how Quentin’s mouth falls open and his body tenses.

“Yes,” Quentin says, blissed out. “I want you to. Fuck me with your stupid big dick. Until you come. I wanna feel it.” He pulls Eliot in for a sloppy kiss, and Eliot lets him. It’s mesmerizing, how Eliot can make Quentin’s entire body tremble with just a kiss, or pull a moan out of his mouth with one teasing finger. He’s almost sad when he pulls away, but the whimper that falls from Quentin’s lips, and knowing that soon he’ll be buried much deeper inside him spurs him forward.

“I’m going to cast a few spells, okay? For protection, cleaning, and help stretch you out. Okay?” Quentin nods, and watches with interest as Eliot’s hands move in the familiar movements. 

Quentin wiggles as the spell takes effect, pressing his head back into the pillow. “That feels weird. I like it.”

Eliot chuckles as he shoves a pillow under Quentin’s hips, pushes his knees up and out. “You’ll like this,” he promises, and then licks a warm stripe right over Quentin’s entrance.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Quentin says, and then his groan is muffled as Eliot licks around his puckered hole. Eliot looks up to see Quentin pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he bucks up, chasing Eliot’s mouth.

“Nuh uh,” Eliot says, reaching up and pulling one of Quentin’s hands away. “You can touch me, put your hand in my hair, pull—but I wanna hear you.” Then he casts a quick tut that fills one hand with lube, and drags his tongue down Quentin’s cock as he gently pushes in one finger.

Quentin shoves one hand into Eliot’s hair, gripping firmly at his scalp as Eliot wraps his lips around Quentin’s cock, sucking on the head as he pushes his finger into the root. Quentin tenses, and then relaxes around Eliot as he starts thrusting in and out. It’s a heady feeling, Quentin’s cock firming up against his tongue while his body moves against his fingers. Eliot could get addicted to it.

He works in another finger, and then moves to lick at Quentin’s balls as he works him further, Quentin opening easily with the magic prep and Eliot’s fingers.

Quentin is soft and pliable, so fucking _responsive_ that Eliot could do this all day, but it’s not long before his body is begging him to get things moving. His cock is leaking all over the bedspread, aching and heavy, and he has three fingers buried inside Quentin when he finally pulls away and gasps out, “You ready?”

“For the love of all that is holy, fuck _yes, please_ , I’ve been ready for like two goddamn years.” 

“Okay, okay,” Eliot pants, keeping his fingers in place but moving up Quentin’s body, letting Quentin pull him into a bruising kiss. Quentin thrusts his tongue in his mouth, like he’s desperate for the taste of himself on Eliot’s tongue. He pulls his fingers out and Quentin whimpers, his hips canting up as Eliot settles back between his thighs.

“It’s okay, baby,” Eliot says, pressing the head of his cock against Quentin’s entrance. He conjures more lube and smooths it over his dick, grabbing Quentin’s hand again and slotting their fingers together, pressing it down into the mattress as he bears his weight on it. He grips the base of his cock with his other hand, enjoying the gasps from Quentin as Eliot teases over his hole. “I have what you need. Gonna give it to you. Try and stay relaxed, okay?”

Quentin nods, and Eliot presses forward, the head easily slipping inside. Quentin’s legs tense, and his free hand reaches up to grab at Eliot’s forearm as he presses his head back into the bed. “ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, his fingers gripping tightly, “How have we not been doing this since the first day we met? This feels so—so good.”

“I have no fucking idea,” Eliot says as he pushes in farther, easing in. “Relax, baby.” He stills as Quentin exhales heavily, and pushes in another inch when Quentin’s body gives around him, accepting him in. “Yeah, like that. God, you feel incredible. Like you were made for me.” He slides into the root, his hips against Quentin’s ass, bracing his body on his elbows over Quentin’s. He stills, tense, his body desperate for him to thrust and push and _fuck_ , but he doesn’t want to hurt Quentin by going too fast too soon.

“I _was_ made for you,” Quentin says, pulling his hand free, wrapping his arms around Eliot, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Now show me a good time,” he says with a grin. 

Eliot’s chuckle turns into a groan as Quentin wiggles against him, the movement sending sparks down his thighs, lighting his body on fire. He thinks of the soulmate flames, bright and red and exploding into the night sky. And then he starts to move.

Eliot’s had a lot of sex, with a lot of people. He always knew Quentin was special, but he had no idea how intoxicating, how overwhelming sex could be with the right person. As their bodies move together, stroking into Quentin’s velvet tight heat, the fire inside him sparking and spinning out of control, he’s struck by how long it took him to see what’s been right in front of him the past two years.

“I love you,” Eliot chokes out, laying sloppy kisses on Quentin’s face as he snaps his hips, fucking into him, grinding his hips against Quentin’s cock with every thrust. He’s close, his balls drawing up tight, and he buries his face into Quentin’s neck as he chases his release.

“I love you,” Quentin whispers, his thighs tightening around Eliot, and Eliot thrusts two more times, and he comes, bolts of white-hot pleasure searing through his body. It seems to go on forever, spilling inside Quentin, until he collapses on his chest with a soft laugh and a groan. His knees splay out, his cock softening as he breathes through the aftershocks.

As he comes back to himself, a quick _thump thump thump thump_ is beating against Eliot’s cheek. He turns his head, pressing a soft kiss where Quentin’s heart is pounding hard. His tongue darts out to lick at the light sheen of sweat coating Quentin’s body, and he snakes a hand down between them to grasp Quentin’s hard cock.

Quentin’s hands had been caressing down Eliot’s back, but as Eliot strokes his dick, his fingers spasm, digging into Eliot’s skin. “Jesus _fuck_ , Eliot,” Quentin gasps out as Eliot smooths precome over Quentin’s dick, stroking faster.

“I want you to come on my dick, Q,” Eliot says, and he gets his wish a few moments later Quentin comes, spurting between them with a soft groan. Eliot gasps as Quentin’s body tightens on Eliot’s softening cock, stroking Quentin until he bats Eliot’s hand away.

Eliot slides over onto his side, grimacing as he pulls out of Quentin, leaving a trail of come over his thighs and the bedspread. He cleans them both with a couple of cleaning spells and throws a leg over Quentin’s, sighing contentedly as Eliot lays his head on Quentin’s chest. He smiles as he listens to Quentin’s heartbeat slow into a steady, comfortable rhythm.

Quentin’s hand comes up to thread through Eliot’s hair, and Eliot tilts his head up, pressing a kiss on the underside of Quentin’s jaw. Quentin slips down the bed, turning on his side so he can thread their fingers together and press his mouth to Eliot’s.

“Hey,” Quentin says, smiling.

“Hi,” Eliot says, laughing. “Soulmate,” he adds, feeling a little delirious. “What the shit, Q?”

“I still can’t believe it,” Quentin says, arching his back and pulling on the covers so they can slip under them, “I should probably look into it when we get back. See if there are any other Fillorian soulmate surprises waiting for us.”

“Yeah?” Eliot says, laying on his back and pulling Quentin so he’s laying half on top of Eliot. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Quentin nuzzles his face into Eliot’s neck as Eliot drapes a hand over Quentin’s back. “Maybe we can open a portal to Soulmate land or something. Or maybe one of us can get pregnant; who knows.” 

Eliot goes still, sending Quentin a wide-eyed look, causing Quentin to pick his head up and grin. “I’m joking,” he says, causing Eliot to roll his eyes. “I mean, I think I am. This is Fillory. Who knows, right?”

“Yeah, well,” Eliot says, tangling their legs together under the covers, “I’m sure Fen can tell us. And you should prepare yourself when we get back. She’s going to flip her shit when she hears we’re soulmates and she wasn’t here to see it.”

Quentin chuckles, cuddling in closer. Eliot douses the torches in the room, and he’s almost asleep when he hears Quentin’s soft voice in the darkness.

“You know you always have a choice, El. Just because some spell says we’re soulmates doesn’t mean you’re chained to me forever.”

Eliot shifts so he can wrap both arms around Quentin, brushing one hand into his hair and tilting Quentin’s head back so he can look up at Eliot. The room is nearly pitch black, with only silver starlight shining dimly into the room, but Eliot can just barely make out the outline of Quentin’s face in the darkness.

“I’ve lived in a lot of places, Q. Indiana, New York. Brakebills, Whitespire. And the only time any of those ever felt like even close to home was when you were there.” He brushes his lips over Quentin’s forehead. “And right now home is an inn off the cliffside of the Broken Bay during the Fillorian Fucking Festival. I’m not _chained_ to you, baby. I’m _choosing_ you.”

Quentin brings his hands up to grasp the sides of Eliot’s neck, and presses their lips together. Eliot can feel Quentin’s wet cheeks as they kiss, and he reaches up to wipe away his tears. “I love you,” Quentin says, exhaling against Eliot’s mouth.

“I love you, too. Get some sleep, okay?” Eliot says, gently massaging into Quentin’s scalp. “I’m probably going to wake you up in a couple hours, and you’ll need your energy.”

Quentin snorts, but he lays back down, and Eliot’s arm automatically wraps around him. He can feel Quentin’s grin as he nestles his face into the crook of Eliot’s neck. Within minutes, Quentin’s breathing evens out, and Eliot knows he’s asleep.

Eliot can just see the twin Fillorian moons, or the dark shape of them, through the window in the bedroom, and he smiles. An impossible thing. Outside in the starry sky, and here in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> The little speech that Quentin reads from the Soulmate Scroll I did not write myself, but paraphrased from a random website.
> 
> Please find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rubickk7) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Rubick71).


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